I was recently talking to a bartender friend of mine after work, who was in a bit of a bad mood after a particularly shit night. It was about 4am, and he felt dejected at the prospect of having to do it all over again the next day.

‘I guess at least you’re not in until 5pm,’ I said, perhaps with an unfairly wavering level of empathy. ‘You can have a good lie-in!’

I was trying to look on the bright side, but admittedly the last thing anyone wants to hear when they’re feeling pissed off is someone suggesting that their despondencies are ungrounded.

‘You don’t get it though,’ he said. ‘You just work 9 to 5.’

That second bit he hurtfully spat out – and clearly untrue given I was sat in a closed bar at 4am. But before I could realise how much this dialogue had annoyed me, the conversation had moved swiftly on, meaning that I was left alone to mull it over in the week that followed. And the more it mulled with me, the more it vexed me.

I’ve always prided myself in being a hard worker. That desperate year after graduation I was working two bar jobs, often combining to create some pretty gnarly 60-70 hour weeks – not including the freelance writing work that I squeezed in as part of each week on top of this. Sometimes I would work one job until 5pm, whizz home to write an article, head back into town for 6.30pm for a gig and club night double whammy at my other job, climb into bed at around 6am, get up at 8am to schedule social media for another job before scooting back to that first café job to smile at middle-aged women totally desperado for their fucking latte fix.

But it was okay because not only could I rest – for 2 or 3 hours – assured knowing that it was temporary, and that perhaps the next day wouldn’t be as full-on, but also because it’s just what so many people do.

The 9 to 5 lifestyle is actually a bit of a myth. I’ve been brought up watching my mother, a teacher, marking work, lesson planning and writing reports most evenings. She would get to work at about 7.30am and return at about 6pm (which doesn’t look like 9 to 5 to me), and during the school holidays she’d often be back in the classroom preparing for September’s onslaught of new arrivals.

I’ve also got bartender friends who’ll work 10 days on the trot without so much as a sniff of time off. I’ve got chef friends who spend 70 hours a week in the kitchen as standard. My brother has a full-time job and goes to college, also studying for exams, on the side. If my boss does have some kind of off-switch, she doesn’t ever seem to go near it.

So perhaps the 9 to 5 lifestyle is a rarity in itself – it’s unnatural. When I first started working as an intern at a small communications agency, I found the hours strange. I’d not know what to do in between finishing at 5.30pm and eating dinner at 7pm, so I joined a gym. And because the intern’s wage will never be a particularly flourishing thing, I started working on the door in a bar (taking entry money, not as a bouncer, I hasten to add) every Friday and Saturday night – only 4 hours a pop, but still. I also still have to work each weekend and pretty much every evening writing, and spend many lunch hours scheduling social media for my freelance work. Plus, no longer an intern, my supposed 9 to 5 job rarely goes a week without a couple of evening events or late night work. And I honestly don’t mind, because I love all of it.

After discovering that Mark (Game of Thrones’ Nikolaj Coster-Waldau) is actually quite the little shit, his wife and two women that he has been cheating on her with team up for a sister act of revenge.

Well, I suppose I shot myself in the foot with this one. But, slightly hankering after some social activity within what had been quite a few shitty weeks – not unlike a dog that needs to be taken out for the day – I traipsed out to my local multiplex to meet my gurl-friends.

No doubt to the surprise of many, I am actually able to begin with some good points. Beneath my curtain of bitterness I would actually consider myself a fairly positive old girl, and on this occasion this was due largely to the fact that one of my friends had turned up Maoam Pinballs and Cadbury Chocolate Buttons. We were off to a good start. However, before the screening I was also subjected to the trailer for Walking on Sunshine, and it was during these glorious two minutes that The Other Woman found itself with a fighting chance. Let’s just say that, as I massaged my temples with equal quantities of frustration and disbelief, it seemed that the only way was up.

Aside from the tasty foodstuffs that sat in the drinks holder beside my elbow, another thumbs up goes to Leslie Mann, who plays Mark’s desperate housewife, Kate. I’m fully aware that many find Mann’s shrill, whiny voice simply annoying, but with her unique brand of humour that blends perfect comic timing, relatability and amusingly exaggerated neuroses, I am happy to put my hands up and say that my only laughs were because of her. Meanwhile, Cameron Diaz is up to her usual, irksome tricks whilst pouting in silky white blouses, and don’t even get me started on Kate Upton – who, as The New York Times perfectly phrased it, has been ‘crassly shoehorned into the movie’ (for the slow-motion sequence of her running along the beach in a bikini, no less).

Yes, there are indeed moments of some comic value, but that’s where the praise ends. Perhaps the biggest downfall of the film is that, despite intending to portray and promote female empowerment, what we’re actually given are three very simplistic stock female characters: the thick-as-pigshit eye candy, the career bitch and the naïve housewife who is a bit of an emotional mess. And as if these types aren’t obvious enough, they’re signaled with trashy white bikinis, black leather pencil skirts and floral 50s-style dresses, respectively.

Many of the film’s other messages are also more than just a little off. We are told that we can’t be too bushy downstairs because men don’t like it. We are told that if you find your husband has been cheating on you, you should put hormones into his morning smoothie so that his nipples go all weird. We are told that if your fella has been unfaithful, it’s really healthy to seek vengeance. What’s the next move for operation emasculation, lady? Are you just going to go ahead and castrate the damn guy? I’ve never been in this situation so I might be wrong, but I really don’t think these are the things should or do take precedence when you find out someone has been doing the dirty.

In failing so badly at empowering women, the film also manages to alienate men – most noticeable by how female-heavy the audience was. As the credits rolled I saw all of five men sheepishly dragging their feet down the gangway, sporting an expression of both utter bemusement and actual trauma; they were all completely silent. The unequal ratio of men to women also meant that every time a male character walked into a glass door or shit their pants (laxative gag alert), a wave of jarringly high-pitched giggles leapt through the darkness and I was left wondering, ‘This is what does it for us? Really?’

The whole thing was then rounded off with a fucking montage, which to add insult to injury was accompanied by a Keyshia Cole and Iggy Azalea rendition of the chick-flick classic, I’m Coming Out. Other hits from the soundtrack include the theme from Mission Impossible, used really ingeniously as the girls turn on stealth mode to investigate Mark’s escapades, Cyndi Lauper’s Girls Just Want to Have Fun, Frank Sinatra’s New York, New York (because we’re in New York, obviously) and Bubble Butt by I don’t even care who.

And lastly: Nicki Minaj is in it.

All in all, The Other Woman is at times funnier than the average chick-flick, and shamefully I did leave the cinema in a much less rubbish mood, but fundamentally all it manages to be is a combination of cheap laughs, patronising revenge tactics, and a pretty pathetic portrayal of women.

Let’s cut to the chase and just say that I really, really enjoyed this film. But what is important is that, unlike the way every arsehole seems to consume things these days, within such praise there is absolutely no irony.

Laughing in the face of precocious slogan T-shirts, excessive hashtags and men with little buns on top of their heads, The Lego Movie does not subscribe to the so-bad-its-good school of thought. It instead falls confidently into the category of a well-made family movie that’s far cleverer than it lets on – much like Wreck-it-Ralph, which whilst being made principally for children actually includes more nuances and observations about adult life than many of its more mature, thoughtful and cinematically revered equivalents.

The film follows ordinary Lego-dude Emmett (Chris Pratt), who lives by the book and plays by the rules in a world where subliminal messaging and shite sit-coms are the norm and a coffee costs ten times the price it should – which all sounds hauntingly familiar, I know. Emmett finds himself involuntarily grafted into a force of Master Builders trying to stop the evil President Business (Will Ferrell), who is waging a war against nonconformism and creative freedom. In short, there’s a good guy trying to overcome a bad guy – there’s nothing too innovative about the narrative in its general buildup. The charm, however, lies within the clever details – of which there are many.

Characters are voiced by a stellar cast of twinkling names including Will Ferrell, Morgan Freeman, Elizabeth Banks, Will Arnett, Chris Pratt and Charlie Day, which in itself should help prove that this is no half-arsed affair. The attention to detail is also one that conjures up an alarming level of nostalgia, such as the recogniseable sound of the plastic building blocks clattering and clinking against each other and the helmet of the loveable Spaceman Benny, which suffers from a crack at its flimsiest part – as many toys unfortunately do. However, the film’s biggest strength is the way in which it acts as a gentle yet humorous nod towards the nature of popular culture, and just how seriously fucked up it can be.

I remember raising my often-elevated and readily judgmental eyebrow at the trailer; I remember having those doubts. But instead of liking something to be cute or quirky or mind-fuckingly ironic, I just enjoyed it and managed to find humour in its purest, unadulterated form. Anyone remember how that feels?

]]>https://jessicahardiman.wordpress.com/2014/03/06/the-lego-movie/feed/0LEGOjesshardimanLEGOFilms to soothe the soulhttps://jessicahardiman.wordpress.com/2014/02/11/films-to-soothe-the-soul/
https://jessicahardiman.wordpress.com/2014/02/11/films-to-soothe-the-soul/#respondTue, 11 Feb 2014 17:33:42 +0000http://jessicahardiman.wordpress.com/?p=239Continue reading →]]>Recently my best friend of twenty-three years asked me to recommend some films for her to watch. My eyes grew wide in equal measures of possibility and apprehension, but – knowing that my life is currently of very little consequence and that I have time abundance – I cracked my knuckles and sat back.

It would be all too simple to reel off a list of the golden oldies, for a mere ten seconds on the internet and you’ll find yourself with some website barking at you as to why you haven’t seen Citizen Kane yet. Have you been living in a fucking cave? I, however, think we should be forgiven for not always wanting to watch the classics, for these all too often subscribe to some cinematic bucket list of snobbery that ever so slightly bullies you into enjoying them. Sometimes you’re just not in the mood for something that won ten Oscars and details the life of a junkie mass murderer with terminal cancer. And that’s fine.

Instead, I settled on a list of the films that I can always turn to in times of need; the ones that somehow reach out of the screen, give me a gentle pat on the back and simply say, “Ah, you’re alright, pet.” Such an undertaking was also intended to solve the issue faced when people ask me what my favourite film is – a question that crops up a lot, given my academic background. I used to always say The Godfather (Part 2), but I fear that this has now become my safe default rather than my genuine favourite. I suppose nowadays the answer may be more nuanced, which depresses me as I remember how pissed off I used to get when I would ask my parents what their favourite colour was, only to get a dissatisfyingly diplomatic answer that ‘depends what mood I’m in.’ Aaaargh.

Untouchable
Quadriplegic gazillionaire hires streetwise ex-con as his new carer, and the two form an unlikely bond. Watch the trailer here.

Put simply, this film is just really, really, really good. It somehow possesses that magical balance that provokes both roars of laughter and moments of true poignancy. This is achieved mostly by the perfect casting and a sturdy, clever script (which is especially impressive as the humour manages to pervade the subtitles, despite being a French-language film) both of which have helped produce one of those rare, instant classics. You’ll find yourself grinning from ear to ear as soon as the credits roll, basking in its brilliance as the dim cinema lights come up.

Before Sunset / Before Sunrise / Before MidnightTwo strangers meet on a train and decide to disembark and hang out together in Vienna – before growing older, wiser and much more cynical in the sequels that follow. Watch the trailer here.

This trilogy takes the romance genre and strips it right back, shedding the many layers of twinkly music and sentimental monologues to reveal something a thousand times truer than the majority of its generic equivalents could ever wish to achieve. Instead we see a world unfold before us that is full of flawed characters, deep-seated insecurities and incessant talking, and to me, this is what romance actually involves, whether we like it or not. Each of the films are essentially three long, drawn-out conversations, meaning that the action unfolds very, very slowly – much like life does.

Almost Famous
Fifteen-year-old aspiring rock journalist takes to the road with an up-and-coming band in this tale of friendship, growing up and, most importantly, music. Watch the trailer here.

“I always tell the girls: ‘never take it seriously.’ If you never take it seriously, you never get hurt; you never get hurt, you always have fun, and if you ever get lonely, just go to the record store and visit your friends.” These are the immortal lines of the fabulous Penny Lane, self-titled ‘band-aid’ (as opposed to groupie) to the semi-fictional ’70s rock band Stillwater, and it is this logic that can single-handedly explain the film’s charm. Essentially, what you’re being told is that life can be shit, and people can be even shitter, but sometimes it’s good to take a step back and tackle things with less of a heavy heart. It also implores us to rely on good music, which is advice that I just cannot find within myself to dismiss as flippant – largely thanks to my father, whose era was also the 1970s and whose love for rock music is perhaps part of the reason why I love this film so much.

Blue Jasmine
Rich-bitch gets thrown from the heights of society and basically goes bat-shit crazy with the transition. Watch the trailer here.

There are always moments in life when you can practically feel your heart blackening by the second and all you want to do is sink yourself into a triple measure of gin, and it is when these moments strike that you should turn to Blue Jasmine, a film that is unique in that it isn’t for the sad, depressed or brokenhearted, but for the very, very pissed off. I guarantee that you will never be as fucked off as Jasmine, the titular character who has had a bit of a rough time, but as she lounges around swilling her Stolichnaya vodka, it feels as though she’s sticking a finger up to the world around you, with you – and it feels great to have some company, however twisted it may be. The film has some really serious themes, as it explores mental health in a way that more areas of popular culture should – and yet despite its underlying sincerity, I couldn’t help walking out of the cinema with a slightly wicked grin on my face.

Away We Go
An unmarried couple search the land to find an appropriate setting to raise their unborn child. Watch the trailer here.

This film features one of cinema’s more likable couples; you find yourself rooting for them as they try and make sense of the confusing world around them because together they possess a bearable, watchable and believable level of chemistry. Like the romance itself, the film chugs along slowly yet gracefully – a pace that is matched by a beautiful soundtrack using songs mainly by the bewitching Alexi Murdoch. In a nutshell, Away We Go is a modest little film, and in retaining such simplicity it becomes a perfect ailment for when life gets too complicated.

The Darjeeling LimitedAfter the death of their father, three brothers hitch a ride on The Darjeeling Limited to reconnect with each other whilst travelling across India. Watch the full trailer here.

Much like many of Wes Anderson’s films, this film is visually stunning, and in all its aesthetic glory it creates an avenue for some fantastic, sepia-toned escapism. But aside from all of the pretty colours and exotic landscapes, the film also explores more difficult concepts such as depression, death and estrangement without getting too heavy-handed or sombre – which is a feat in itself. In fact, as the brothers traverse the glorious Indian landscape, and the broken family begins to repair itself without its patriarch, you may even feel uplifted.

]]>https://jessicahardiman.wordpress.com/2014/02/11/films-to-soothe-the-soul/feed/0before sunrise 2jesshardimanuntouchablebefore sunrise 2almost_famous_bus_singalong_tiny_dancer1blue jasmineaway_we_go_photo_10darjeeling limitedMy favourite festive foodhttps://jessicahardiman.wordpress.com/2013/12/18/my-favourite-festive-food-1-chocolate-yule-log/
https://jessicahardiman.wordpress.com/2013/12/18/my-favourite-festive-food-1-chocolate-yule-log/#commentsWed, 18 Dec 2013 16:10:46 +0000http://jessicahardiman.wordpress.com/?p=226Continue reading →]]>I would say that most of what makes Christmas so magical is the food. I guess there’s also family, presents and time off work, but realistically, I’m just here for the grub. The magnificence of eating and overindulging will mean different things to different people, but here are the ones that do it for me. Some quite straightforward, some… less so.

#5: Christmas dinner

Pigs in blankets: pig on pig

No list would be complete without the traditional Christmas dinner. It is wonderful because it takes the already perfect formula of a roast lunch, and then adds pigs in blankets. We also get sprouts, which stir up within me a stubborn desire to go against that odd cliché that they taste disgusting. They don’t? I love them and all of their garish bright green beauty. I don’t mind them on their own, but you can’t beat the addition of some bacon and chestnuts, both for festive charm and for gluttony. We also usually eat turkey, which, again, I believe gets rather unfairly bad press. I appreciate that the meat isn’t the most flavoursome, but with all of the rich accompanying sides, condiments, sauces and gravies, I think my stomach relishes the slightly blander joys of the pale turkey meat. Plus, it’s tradition – why would you go fannying around with a salmon? One year we had a three bird roast, but that included turkey, so it’s okay.

#4: Spaghetti Carbonara

This may seem odd, but I have one particular memory of this dish that arouses such joy within me. We ate this one year a few days after the intense core of Christmas eating. Having enjoyed gloriously heavy and rich meals on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Boxing Day and New Year’s Day, my stomach was very grateful, but all at the same time pleading for no more. I think the roast lamb was the final straw, and my gut craved for an end to the heavy, meat-centric fare. Enter the Spaghetti Carbonara. Now, I will make no claims that this is some kind of light or healthy affair – on the contrary – but the richness it oozed was of a type my stomach could handle. This was largely because the sauce is something that asks for so few ingredients. We don’t make it the authentic way and instead we rather sacrilegiously add cream – it’s just the way it is, and I’m not really prepared to go and change it because, quite frankly, I like cream. Along with egg, cheese, parsley and bacon lardons, salt and pepper, we had ourselves a tasty little treat. It sat before me on a plate, beautiful and beige, but flecked with the vibrant green of the parsley and the salty and radiantly pink lardons (meat in speckle form meant that I could handle it), a dot of pepper here and there. This meal is no stranger to my diet, but this really was the time in my life when it became my hero. I suppose it stands for those completely non-Christmassy but completely necessary dishes that make it possible to soldier on with the more intense stuff over the festive period.

#3. Pistachio nuts

These little suckers are even more addictive than Pringles

Fruit and nut mixes are the epitome of Christmas – to people like my Mum and sister. Unfortunately, I don’t share the excitement for such healthy, wholesome snacking; my tastebuds aren’t yet refined enough to enjoy the confusion of cashew nuts and almonds without all of the salt or honey-roasting. Instead, I can sit quite happily in front of a bowl of salted pistachio nuts, which are perhaps the tastiest little morsels in the entire world. The only downside to these flamboyantly green beauties are the empty shells that form a small mountain in front of you, which become a clear indicator of just how many you’ve eaten.

#2: Cheese and biscuits

This sounds like an obvious one, and it is, but what makes up for its blatency is the fact that cheese is so fucking great. Over the Christmas period, my parents will ensure that the house is well-stocked with every kind of cheese you can imagine, along with the accompanying cracker selection. Personally, I am quite partial to a Cornish Wafer, but realistically I’ll welcome anything – as long as it transports the dairy delight to my mouth in an efficient and speedy manner. We rarely have a roast for lunch, so when we do it is our intention to counteract this with a slightly lighter so-called ‘Cakey Tea’. When I was younger this was merely an excuse to eat Jaffa Cakes, French Fancies and Pringles until I was fit to burst, but its grown-up manifestation involves chutneys, pates, Kettle Chips, Olives and, of course, all of the cheese. It is this cheese that is the pinnacle of a ‘Cakey Tea’, because it is what provokes it and forces us to bring out all of the usual suspects to support it. A light meal it is not, but as we all sit down to pretend that we are even remotely hungry, it remains one of my favourites.

#1: Chocolate yule log

This Belgian chocolate yule log from Tesco is basically perfect

Everyone loves cake; this is only a natural instinct. However, I absolutely adore chocolate yule logs. This is partly because they are a form of cake, and partly because they are chocolate, but what impresses me most is their composition. The fact that they are rolled means that the sponge to cream or icing ratio lies dangerously but beautifully around the 50:50 mark, and everyone knows that it’s the indulgent, iced, chocolaty embellishment that is the best bit, but we never get enough of it. Moreover, the need for its exterior to resemble a nubbly, gnarly log also allows for the icing to be thick and rich, in order to craft the knotty details upon its surface. Lots of silky, cocoa-laden icing (or cream, if that’s your bag) puts the chocolate yule log up there with the big dogs. The big, sickly, gluttonous big dogs.

This recipe was borne out of a series of predicaments that arose when I recently tried to get creative with some lamb shanks. I was to either take the Moroccan route (one full of warm spices and probably with some chickpeas and apricots thrown in at the end) or the boozy route (essentially involving lots and lots of red wine). I’ve always been a fan of the vino, but my stash of spices was practically jumping from the cupboard at the thought of being partnered with lamb. This was Predicament No. 1.

Predicament No. 2 arrived soon after I learnt that old, boozy habits die hard, which meant that the wine route had won and I would now also need bay leaves, rosemary and sage from the garden. But, believe it or not, the bloody builder had the back door key. I very briefly considered climbing out of an upstairs window, down the scaffolding and into the garden, but that idea was soon shunned. Back I moved to warm spices, ditching the unobtainable herbs.

Luckily, Predicament No. 2 was actually removed when I found the back door key – funnily, sat right by the back door. Clever builder. So in I threw all the ingredients, along with plenty of red wine and port. Into the oven.

Ten minutes later I was back onto Predicament No. 1. I could sense the cumin, cinnamon, ginger and all their pals calling to me, and I felt a strange pang of guilt – but then I had a brainwave. I realised I could satisfy the best of both worlds by combining Moroccan spicy warmth with rich red wine: mulled lamb.

Coat the lamb shanks in flour and add a small knob of butter to a frying pan. Brown the shanks and transfer into a casserole. Use the residual fat to quickly fry the onion, before also transferring into the casserole along with the carrot, celery and garlic.

With the heat still on, pour the port into the frying pan to deglaze it. Pour this into the casserole, before adding the stock, wine, herbs, spices and orange rind.

Put into the oven and cook for 2 – 2 ½ hours, checking every now and again to see if more liquid is needed. If so, add more wine or port to keep the sauce rich.

Half an hour before serving, you’ll find yourself ready for an early evening sherry, whilst you crack on with some creamy mash to soak up the juices and some greens for a bit of colour.

Pinterest is my new love, as I get the buzz of shopping without spending any money. It has been especially good for browsing clothes, hairstyles and fashion icons that inspire my style choices, so you’ll see a lot of Breton tops, little black dresses, Brigitte Bardot and headbands.

I love classic, retro fashion, especially trends inspired by the 1950s and 1960s as these were eras in which women not only dressed elegantly, but also playfully. Vintage fashion has come such a long way, meaning that its influence has crept its way into mainstream shops – and this is great. Rather than shying away from what has now become popular, use its availability to delve further and figure out exactly what your style is within it.

(I found this review on my computer, forgotten, half-written and unloved. Having just seen Skyfall for a second time on DVD, I have been able to add a few thoughts and, in doing so, make it slightly more publishable.)

I have never been one of those die-hard Bond fans, as sacrilegious to cinema as it may seem. As much as I can admire its long reign in the British film industry, I’ve just never embraced the product as fully as others have – perhaps something to do with its sidelined position in my upbringing, as I grew up watching Bond both sporadically and often lackadaisically.

But before I begin to rant about some sort of lacking in my childhood (if Bond was the only deficiency, then perhaps there is hope for me yet), let me confess that I was actually quite eagerly anticipating Skyfall. Expectations were not exactly sky-high, but they were enjoying some stature, and although I didn’t really feel like the franchise owed me anything through this film in its 50-year celebration, I still wanted to join the party.

We’re used to seeing Bond in exciting foreign lands (and true to form, here he can be seen bounding around in Istanbul, Shanghai and Macau), but Skyfall brings much of the action closer to home as an attack is launched on MI6 by former employee Raoul Silva (Javier Bardem). Turns out Silva’s got one b-i-i-i-i-g vendetta against M (Judi Dench) in particular, meaning Bond’s need to protect gets a little more personal. In fact, these personal touches form the basis from which Skyfall derives much of its charm: Daniel Craig’s Bond is no more a mere suave and charismatic shell of a man, for the characterisation delves much deeper, with insight to his childhood and an off-duty lifestyle that doesn’t revolve solely around bedding pretty ladies. Somehow Bond becomes even more likable, cementing his position as national treasure.

Aside from feeding British pride well, one of Skyfall‘s other biggest strengths is that it is very well cast. With Javier Bardem on board to portray the spine-chillingly magnificent Silva, Ralph Fiennes as government top-dog and Judi Dench back to reprise her role as M one last time, the credits are twinkling with stellar names. Newbie Q brings a breath of fresh air and youth to largely middle-aged cast, complete with those all-important geek-chic specs and OAP knitwear.

The song of the same name by Adele deserves a mention, too, as it is magnificent – enchanting even. I can also say this with the wonderful impartiality gained from not being part of Adele’s sprawling fan club that formed immediately in the wake of Someone Like You‘s release, meaning that my praise should be considered to be of some magnitude.

Of course, the film overall isn’t perfect, as nothing ever is. One of the main gripes I have is that his ‘assumed-dead’ period is never fully justified. Bond plummets to what should be a fatal death around ten minutes into the film, so we all know he lives because otherwise things would be rather on the short side, but it’s as if the filmmakers have relied on us knowing this without confronting why. I almost respect the filmmakers for not even attempting some shoddy, cheap attempt at a reason (bulletproof vests, a bible in the shirt pocket, etc.) but this is almost respect; it’s not quite there.

The presence of Heineken was also shameless. As Bond lounges in bed having screwed the bejesus out of yet another exotic beauty, he reclines and swigs sorrowfully on a very suspect green bottle. Even he looks quite dismayed as what his life has come to – gone are the days of shaken martinis and fast cars, hello to a new life of sipping on average beer like anyone else. This small feature that offended me so much didn’t really seem to faze anyone else. As I smirked incredulously in the dark cinema, my friend slowly turned to me, asking what was wrong. Maybe it’s just me, but when it also popped up in the midst of a major MI6 emergency – one of its employees casually slurping as though it was a quiet Sunday evening at home – I was almost vowing never to drink the stuff again.

Skyfall is essentially everything it set out to be, working as a fantastic celebration of one of Britain’s finest characters. At times things can get a little cheesy and sentimental, but what else would you expect for a 50th anniversary?

Recently I’ve acquired a bit of a soft spot for sherry. I know – it’s come as a bit of a shock to me as well, and initially it was not something I cared to admit. And yet what I once thought of as synonymous with old ladies at Christmas has now become my saviour.

Not long ago I was gritting my teeth through a particularly grueling week of unemployment, where to be told to keep my head up one more time would possibly send me to breaking point. Having reached my quota in tolerance for searching, hunting, writing, editing, applying, umming, ahhing and sighing, I found myself unable to plod on no more.

Luckily for me, my mother had noticed.

“Glass of sherry?” She asked, her pitch high as if she had already indulged, but also indicating that she was ignoring my protruding lower lip.

I’ve had the occasional glass in the past, on a cold wintry eve and whatnot, but never before had I understood it. Until now.

In waltzed my mother with the sherry, placing it on the table next to me before leaving the room, humming, to carry on with whatever it was she was doing. Reluctantly I took a sip, and I swear within that second something mystical happened, as if a higher power was finally taking the hint and had very suddenly decided to intervene.

I’ve always seen myself as a gin gal when times get tough, seeing as it’s got a pretty sturdy reputation for wallowing with you. But sherry? Jeepers, it slaps you round the face with something (a strange brand of happiness, I think), taking no prisoners as it sweeps you up into a stream of completely unexpected optimism. Much like the distraction tactics people use for small children when they begin to cry, there’s barely time to even try and force a tear out before the glass is finished. At first it’s completely confusing, and then you find yourself going along with it, forgetting all the misery and sorrow that was felt just moments ago.

It also didn’t take long for me to notice that the effects of sherry can be likened to those of my mother, whose pep talks are less peppy and more: “Pull yourself together and cheer up”. As I sit there with a face like a slapped arse, she offers neither overwhelming sympathy nor undeserved affection, opting instead for the proactive, semi-tough love approach that a glass of sherry also subscribes to – one that subtly pops that protruding lip back in so that we can all get on with our day. Indeed, my mother is a glass of sherry, humming and waltzing in and out of rooms so as to baffle the bad mood into submission.

Of course, I’m not trying to commit anyone to a life of alcoholism or dependency. On the contrary, I believe, as sherry asks for only 50ml (or thereabouts) of your thirst, and on a fairly irregular basis at that. I may be about 60 years too early, but somehow I don’t think I particularly mind.

Just don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it, for this is one warming tipple that kicks you in the old metaphorical balls. In a good way, of course.

Woody Allen and I go way back, with his sharp, rambling dialogue forming a large part of how I came to fall in love with cinema. Being a big fan, I felt more than happy to spend eight of my very precious pounds (of which I currently have a rather dwindling stock) on what he had to show for himself with latest work, Blue Jasmine.

The film follows Jasmine, played by the wonderful Cate Blanchett, who undergoes the rich-bitch-turned-poor treatment and basically doesn’t deal well with the process. After her wealthy husband is revealed to be a crook, Jasmine’s life gets flipped upside-down and she jets off to live with her sister in San Francisco for a slightly more modest lifestyle – a well-known formula, of course, but Allen takes the tried-and-tested format and twists it into something nuanced with plenty of his neurotic charm and subtle humour.

That said, the humour is pretty dark. My sister winced her way through it, but luckily that’s the type that gets me going. I was having an especially shitty day, topped by being told off by my sister’s ageing neighbour, Mary, just before we left for the cinema. Yes, I wanted a world that would be slightly gloomy with me, its humour tainted with some cynicism and darkness but still raising an eyebrow with the knowledge that it comes loaded with a laugh somewhere along the line.

Most of the comedy stems either from the quick-witted script or the characterisation, including that of Ginger, Jasmine’s naive yet loveable working-class sister, played by the brilliant Sally Hawkins. Ginger’s fiance, Chilli, also offers some light comic relief, but ultimately it is Cate Blanchett who steals the show, shedding her image of grace and poise and absolutely nailing the Chanel-clad prim type totally losing her shit.

Sipping on Stolichnaya vodka as if it were air to breathe (also the tipple of choice for our own dear Patsy of Ab-Fab), Blanchett’s Jasmine is in the midst of having a nervous breakdown. This is at times somehow hilarious, her low voice growling at the world around her, but its effect also slips into moments of poignancy, highlighting the very real and very volatile issue of mental illness. Allen always plays around with themes of mental health, himself being a self-confessed and widely publicised raging neurotic, and although at times the film makes for hard viewing, it lets us indulge in a little snigger at lunacy before luring us in to face the harsh aftertaste that is reality.

Inside the difficult themes are some fantastic details. Usually a film’s costume designer has his or her work cut out to keep the outfits coming, but it’s the use of repetition that works so gloriously here. Jasmine is a snob and label addict, and even when her funds dry up she refuses to stoop. Instead, we see repeated outfits that desperately cling on to the last of her wealth; she would rather wear apparel worn out from the excessive sweat of her meltdown than slum it in high street garbs.

Allen’s trademark jazz score also comes into its element once again. Somehow playful and sympathetic both at the same time, the soundtrack mimics the two moods of the film that create such a beautifully jarring disharmony. It’s a feature that lingers hauntingly in your mind long after the credits roll, much like the energy of Jasmine’s trembling nerves.

I suppose part of the appeal with this film for me was that I had been feeling almost as pissed off as Jasmine looks in the picture above. After being told off by Mary, I, too, wanted to saunter round clutching a Stoli martini with a twist of lemon, pouting out at the world that has left me unemployed and unfulfilled. One particular scene in which Jasmine recounts life’s recent hardships in a manic, bitter frenzy to bemused nephews struck a little close to home, leaving me with the embarrassing realisation that, ‘Oh, shit. That’s what I look like when people ask me what I’m up to these days.’

But as the plot progresses and Jasmine’s eyes grow ever more bloodshot, it’s hard not to let the mini-meltdown that you think you’re having fade quietly into the distance. Things most definitely could be much, much worse.